


The Curse of the Fae-Child

by Askell



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Autism Spectrum, Character Study, Complicated Relationships, Fae & Fairies, Fairy Tale Elements, Family, Friendship, Jaskier's family, M/M, Mutual Pining, Mystery, Original Character(s), Some Humor, Worldbuilding, but a romance between two female OCs, let's go lesbians let's go, no romance between jaskier or geralt and the female OCs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:13:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22441624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Askell/pseuds/Askell
Summary: “I… there’s an estate, half an hour up north,” Jaskier started, avoiding Geralt’s questioning gaze. “It’s not on the map, but there’s a chance they won’t kill us if we ask for shelter. Don’t ask me to elaborate, if I am wrong we’ll simply find somewhere else and forget about it forever.”Forced to go back to his childhood home, Jaskier is soon tasked with some fae nonsense, because fairies do not exist... right?
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 25
Kudos: 164





	The Curse of the Fae-Child

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfic in quite a few months but I think I've finally found the inspiration I so desperately needed! I'm currently reading the first book so I'll probably incorporate some lore elements here as there as the story progresses, but I've also taken a lot of liberties on the elements which are vague or not specified. 
> 
> Most of the characterization is based on the shows, since I haven't reached the part where Jaskier appears in the books. However, I keep calling them friends because it's more faithful to their book relationship. 
> 
> Please leave a comment if you enjoyed it, I read them all with great pleasure :)

A streamlet sung somewhere ahead, gorged with molten snow, though one could span over it in a single wide step. The forest slept through its last weeks of cold, a few early hares already sprinting through the mulch. Two roasted on skewers already. In a thin pan, Geralt was flipping flat pine bread while Jaskier peeled vegetables with a dagger. Neither was very skilled at his job, but the lunch would be finer than most days past. 

“I’m just saying, it would be nice to find amaranth seeds to pop,” spoke Jaskier, waiting for no more than a raised eyebrow before continuing. “Sure they don’t fill a hungry belly, but they’re a nice snack you know?”

“How many plants did you eat randomly before knowing that?” his companion teased, eyes tracked on the fire. “Or did you take a botany class in Bard College?”

Jaskier scoffed, throwing a peel at Geralt which bounced on his head and narrowly avoided one of the hares. The witcher didn’t seem impressed.

“Mock all you want, if it weren’t for me you would have never spotted the catmint. Which I don’t intend to share with slanderous, bread-burning individuals.”

There was something incredibly funny in seeing a massive man trying to carefully extract a smoking disc out of his pan without burning his fingers. Not unlike watching a boar threading a needle. The bard took note of his friend’s remarkable creativity when it came to insulting analogies, and promised himself that he would use at least half of them in his next humorous work. Perhaps a play? The White Goon and The Pan Cake. Oh that promised to bring him good coin. And a slow, painful death. 

In the end, they shared a slightly overcooked but perfectly edible meal while trading quips. Perhaps the warmer weather was to thank for the unexpected companionship between them, or the witcher had finally taught his ears to appreciate fine music. Yes, he still sat like a sulky lump at the back of the inn they stayed at, but Jaskier was certain to have surprised a rhythmical bouncing of his left foot, once. When idle notes echoed in the forest at night, the butcher of Blaviken closed his eyes and -Melitele’s wonderous bosom be blessed- seemed to minutely relax. 

For once, there was no monster to slay or damsel to rescue (or, well, to keep from murdering people). Unbothered by necessity, both men took their time eating as fyr needles brewed in a small pot. 

“Wow, that’s strong,” the bard commented after a first sip. “My nose cleared in an instant, thanks for that. Could use a dollop of honey though, don’t you think? You’re lucky to never get a runny nose, those are the absolute worst scourge on earth. Can witchers even get sick at all?”

“Hmm.” Geralt hummed. 

“Come to think of it, it’s been a while since I last saw a beehive around these parts. Which parts are these, by the way? Last I checked we were leaving -what was it? Weda?”

“Yes. There’s an unnamed hamlet on the map, if it’s still inhabited we should be able to rest there tomorrow night.”

“Ugh,” the bard dramatically sighed, throwing his head back to look at the greying skies. “When are we going to visit a real city? I’m running low on parchment you know? They don’t sell the items of my craft in unnamed hamlets.”

“Thank the gods for unnamed hamlets then.”

“You- wha- Oh fuck off, Geralt.” Both men smiled.

A soft but icy rain fell upon them as light dimmed, and soon they found themselves scrambling for shelter as the downpour intensified. Pressed against Roach’s flanks under the meager roof of a fallen tree, they tried to wait until the end of the showers. To no avail. Keeping his map out of the rain, Geralt tried to seek any natural recess where they could spend the night. Shivering and bored, Jaskier ended up looking at the map as well. 

“Wait, is the stream we passed an embranchement of the Skip river?”

“Hmm. Might be.”

Thunderstorm broke above them, thickening the curtain of water. Their shoes were thoroughly soaked at that point, as well as the elbows they couldn’t keep tucked close enough. Anxiety wrought Jaskier’s gut like a slimy towel, yet the perspective of sleeping in a damp cave was one he dreaded more.

“I… there’s an estate, half an hour up north,” he started, avoiding Geralt’s questioning gaze. “It’s not on the map, but there’s a chance they won’t kill us if we ask for shelter. Don’t ask me to elaborate, if I am wrong we’ll simply find somewhere else and forget about it forever.”

“What if you’re right?” He closed the map, carefully tucking it in a waterproof pouch. “I need to know what dangers I might be facing.”

“If I am right, if they recognize me and if they do not try to have my hide to decorate the chimney -mind you, this is a big if-, then you’ll perchance learn more about me than I am comfortable sharing. No danger for you, though, they might even allow you to stay in the stables while they skin me.”

Geralt snorted, a quick smirk crossing his lips. “Another of your unfortunate conquests?”

“I wish it were that simple,” sulked Jaskier in return. 

Glacial water was running freely along their spines when they finally reached the gate of a small estate. Conquered by thick ivy and wisteria, the manor was barely bigger than a wealthy merchant’s home, yet its impeccably maintained gardens spoke of some status -or at least the intention of showing one. Where the stone showed, it was grey and solid but old and abandoned to lichen. Surrounding the estate like a magical ward, unbosomed lavender bushes only parted in front of the main doors. No guards were immediately visible, but their hunched silhouettes showed through the fogged up windows of a gatehouse. 

Geralt found himself unnerved by the silence. For better or worse, no man or god seemed to know how to make the bard shut up, and yet his lips stayed sealed. The rain kept all scents aside petrichor from reaching the witcher’s sensitive nose, but he could read the bard as easily as his own horse. Something like an emotion pushed him to place his palm on his companion’s shoulder. Jaskier shook himself out of reach without a look, back straighter and eyes harder. Two fingers in his mouth, he let out the sharp cry of an eagle. 

There was a pregnant pause, then some scrambling among the guards. Two got out, an older man with an impressive mustache and a younger one with a handsome face. 

“My Lord!” said the younger man, jogging toward them in a slightly oversized armor. “It’s been so long!” A wide smile graced his youthful face, which was completely absent from the older warrior’s. 

“Lord Pankratz, welcome back,” the older man grunted, unwelcoming. “Should I alert Madame Pankratz?”

“Yes, please. Tell the servants to prepare my room, a bath, and a bed for my bodyguard. That will be all.”

Geralt wordlessly observed the performance. Jaskier was a better poet than actor, but this was obviously not his first rehearsal. Everything from his posture to the hint of arrogance on his tongue spoke of rank and self-importance. Yet, judging from his choice of profession and the state of his house, his family was nowhere near as powerful as he pretended it to be. For the first time in long seasons, the witcher felt real curiosity rise within him. Jaskier was a natural-born liar and a dramatic person in general, but what he witnessed was different. 

They were led inside the house, Geralt playing along the fable of his employ by walking a pace behind on Jaskier’s blind side. Though warm and well-furnished, the estate spoke of brighter times long gone through faded tapestries, flattened rugs and scratched furniture. There were few, but strategically placed items such as vases, paintings and decorated plates meant to draw the eye and stir the imagination. Having travelled as much as he did, Geralt recognized the signs of dissimulated financial issues.

Lady Pankratz sat in a simple, yet elegant dress next to a small fireplace. Books covered about every inch of wall, their incomparable scent floating in the air along with the lady’s perfume. As the young guard -Ulric, Geralt had heard him be called- announced them, an elderly matron quickly gathered her wool and spindle, and bowed her way out of the room. Nearly walking right into Jaskier, who had abruptly stopped, the witcher was close enough to smell cold sweat and roiling guts on him. Fear. He bowed formally, Geralt simply lowering his head. 

Fire cracked. The lady did not raise her eyes from her tome. 

“Milady-” attempted Ulric. “Lord Pankratz is-”

“I heard the first time.” She reduced him to silence with a single glare. Then, to her -son? “If you came for money you can go back under the rain.”

Jaskier’s shoulders tightened, his mouth taking a downward slope. “We have-” His voice broke. He cleared his throat. “We have been surprised by the weather. I only ask for shelter until the storm is passed.”

As if on cue, lightning tore through the sky, almost immediately followed by deafening thunder. The windows shook slightly. Perhaps the dramatic effect pushed her heart to be more charitable, as she waved her agreement. Not so easily dismissed, Jaskier grit his teeth and forced his tone to sound calm and collected. 

“Is… is John home?” 

“Married off last year, to Lady Ayvon. She is pregnant.” Lady Pankratz went back to her book, clearly dismissing them. Geralt started to turn away, as did the guards.

“What about Marian?” Jaskier insisted. 

“You’ve always known where to find her.”

“Right,” the bard muttered, going as far as to actually push Geralt aside to get out of the room. 

Still, the witcher followed. At some point, Jaskier asked the guards to go see somewhere else if they could fuck off there. He entered Lady Marian’s room without knocking. Geralt couldn’t help but notice the explosion of green in the small bedroom, created by the many potted plants accumulated on any available surface but the bed itself. Though his companion masked most of the view, he was able to see the silhouette of a young girl sitting at the desk with her back to the door, some sort of tight leather band tied around her head. The most curious element of the setting was not her loose linen robes, or the glistening alembics she was working on, but the white line traced on the floor two yards away from the door. 

Jaskier took a deep breath, then sung. It was a string of simple notes, clear and wordless, like a herding call. Almost immediately, a higher-pitched voice joined his in effortless harmony. The girl kept working on her task, completely ignoring them otherwise. Breaking out of character for the first time since they approached the estate, Jaskier smiled with all the pride and fondness of a father. He carefully walked over the line and searched his doublet before putting a small vial full of seeds next to the girl’s hands. More questions accumulated in Geralt’s ever-growing list. With her back turned to them, it was difficult to appreciate the age gap, but it was a possibility. 

“Geralt,” he interrupted, still looking at the girl. “Meet Marian, my dearest sister.” Tenderness creased the corners of his eyes. “She can’t- she’s not- well. It’s hard to explain.”

“You have a lot to explain, bard.”

“I know, I know.” More hand gestures and exaggerated facial expressions finished to shed away the somber role Jaskier had given himself. “And I swear I will give you all the answers you want once we’re truly alone. For now, let’s rest and hope the old hag won’t change her mind and kick me out. Come on.”

At no moment did Lady Marian give any indication she had been following their exchange. It unnerved the witcher. He went to walk their way, barely registering Jaskier yelling him not to before he was projected backward with enough strength to pulverize some of the wall’s plaster. Head ringing and back aching, he scrambled to his feet, ready for a fight. The bard was between them, repeating the word ‘friend’ and putting his hands over hers. 

She was much older than he had first thought, thick leather goggles obscuring her eyes. Even then, the resemblance was shocking. It was like staring at a long-haired version of Jaskier, only much less tall and burning with magical strength. Sharply withdrawing her fingers from her brother’s grasp, Marian turned back to her desk.

“Sheathe your sword, valiant garrotter.” He sounded exhausted. “Please. Let’s get something to eat and a stiff drink, tomorrow we are gone.”

Lady Marian lit a small fire with a flick of her hand under a beaker. Geralt let himself be dragged away, too stunned to make inquiries. 

Answers did not come during dinner, which they took in the company of the servants. Though unfamiliar with proper nobility protocol, Geralt guessed seeing the first born of the house between the cook and his daughter eating his fill of potato soup was not proper. Again, neither was most of his conduct so far, up to and including their first meeting. The bard played some popular songs to his captive crowd, a well-fed orange cat purring on his lap.

Lit by the soft glow of tallow candles, lowered lashes fanning over his cheeks, Jaskier looked way beyond his years. A stranger to his mother, an echo to his sister, and a soft song in the storm to his people. What the witcher had caught of the lyrics spoke of heartbreak and failure to seduce a goddess. The pouring rain and distant thunder painted the heartfelt notes in the color of true tragedy. It is said by those who know nothing but the end of their villages that witchers do not feel. Lost in bittersweet memories, Geralt’s heartstrings differed. 

“That was positively depressing,” Jaskier ruined the whole scene with a face and a grin. “Anyway, here’s Walls of Wonder.”

Geralt felt one emotion, and it was bloodlust. 

In the earliest moments of morning, he sneaked through the cold corridors. Sounds were muffled by the strength of the rainfall and the thickness of the stone walls. Though hostile to their presence, Lady Pankratz had been of the old school of nobility and provided them with comfortable, rank-appropriate lodgings. His room was simple, practical and strategically placed to see any incoming attacks. A small painting of the mountains surrounding Kaer Morhen confirmed his suspicions that the house came from the dead and distant time when witchers were an important caste. 

His carefulness turned out to be irrelevant, as he met no soul on his way. He found Jaskier’s door unlocked, and slipped inside expecting to find at least two people in the bard’s bed. He indeed found Ulric, the young guard, desperately to tie his breeches as fast as he could.

“Sir Witcher, I swear I-” 

“Scramble.”

“Yes sir, sorry sir.”

After glaring at the young, frightened man for good measure, Geralt moved next to the snoring mess that was his friend and gave the bed a sturdy kick. Flailing and grabbing his pillow as a weapon, Jaskier took a moment to realize who was his assailant. He flopped back into his thick quilt with a groan. 

“Fuck’s sake Geralt…”

“We need to talk.”

“I do love the strangled hog quality of your voice, but must we?”

“You have much to explain.”

The bard groaned some more, tying a drape around his hip to walk out of bed. He dragged a chair for the witcher to sit on, then dragged himself toward the washbasin. 

“Where should I start…” He picked up a silver razor from a drawer without looking, and wiped the blade against his thigh. “First, do not ask for clarifications. It is mortifying enough to have you witnessing this. The simplest way to word it out is that I technically hold the title, but my brother is responsible for it. He has the banner and the seal, the wife and the love of the people. He only misses an heir, but that should be solved soon.”

Geralt followed the bard’s movements as he straightened a small bronze mirror and dragged the blade against his jaw. The drape slowly but surely slipped, revealing the curve of his hip bone. Travelling men often stopped seeing each other’s nakedness altogether, as it was a more than daily occurrence. The witcher himself spent most summer months without a shirt to allow his slow pulse to warm up in the sun (“like a lizard!” had laughed Jaskier, seconds before being pushed in a river). Yet, the not-seeing of a slipping drape brought similar warmth to his veins in the middle of the cold season. 

“My dearest mother,” Jaskier continued, seemingly unaware of his captive audience, scraping along his adam’s apple with precise movements. “Thinks Marian has been abducted by the fairies when she was a babe. Claims she saw a shadow took away her sweet babygirl and replaced her with a loveless doll. For decades I believed her, believed my sister was a changeling and a monster. To be fair, we also believed she was deaf and dumb, so we didn’t really bother with her at all. When the witches of wherever-they-live came for her, we saw an opportunity to get rid of that weight.”

The bard’s voice was hard and self-berating, regret and sorrow laced in his harsh words. Geralt’s catlike eyes kept following the blade, listening and distracted altogether. Jaskier turned to the other side of his face, hip canted against the drawer but ineffectively stopping the cloth in its fall. 

“It lasted a month, I think. When she came back unchanged, we groaned and went on with our lives. Again, I thought she was deaf, so I went to practice my lute in her rooms. It was the very first time she took interest in what I was doing.” A melancholic smile played on the bard’s lips, his features soft in the early morning glow. “We learned how to communicate through music, and to this day I’m convinced she’s way better at it than I could ever hope to be. Of course, the sorceresses got all the credit when people heard her voice for the first time, but I know the real magic was music…"

Shaved at last, he splattered water over his face. Stray droplets rolled down his neck, curved along his clavicles, and got lost in the thin hair covering his chest. Some clung to his cold-red lips before he wiped them with a soft cloth. Jaskier turned his back on Geralt completely to grab a small perfume bottle, doing so exposing the dimples crowning his lower back. 

"I don't think anyone taught her how to read words or plants either, yet she excels.” 

Opening the vial, he dabbed the applicator at the corner of his jaws and on the inside of his wrists, turning just so his movements stayed in view. Ever the performer. He didn’t need to hold the witcher’s gaze to know it followed him until a conveniently placed folding screen carved in the Cinthran fashion, with a myriad of holes allowing the person to watch from the inside without being watched. As light filtered through, however, his silhouette appeared in stark shadows. 

“Tell me Geralt, do you have any siblings? A prettier sister, perhaps? A fair maiden with the hair of the old and the eyes of the hawk, now that would make a good song.”

“No. And women can’t be witchers.”

“Ah! A shame, for no man could ever hope to know the inner rage the fairest sex possesses. Or is that the reason? Are you afraid such women could actually overthrow the world’s great powers?”

The drape fell in a deliberately tantalizing manner, exposing the outline of the bard’s toned thighs to the world. Miles and miles of foot travel had refined the indolent edges of his body not quite in the manner of the soldier, but rather with the grace and proportions of the dancer. Heat spread throughout Geralt’s chest, tugging at his patience.

“And who could blame them, really,” Jaskier kept rambling. “Can you pass me my chemise? The one with the embroidery on the wrists.”

“I’m not your damn maid.”

“Would you rather I walked naked as the day I was born to get it myself? Though it happens to be a show quite many people have reported enjoying, I doubt your atrophied sensibility to art could truly appreciate it.” 

“I’ve seen you naked before, there’s nothing to write home about,” Geralt grunted tossing said chemise at his friend above the folding panel. 

The witcher smirked at the offended gasping sounds, picturing the bard’s face perfectly. His traitorous mind provided with other memories of Jaskier’s face, of his chest, of his hands… Ah, fuck. 

“We need to work on your bullying, Geralt, it’s really unsexy,” Jaskier said as he walked in front of the panel, not nearly as dressed up as he was expected to be for breakfast. 

“Close your doublet and your mouth, in whichever order you prefer. If your mother sees you like this, she’ll have a heart attack,” he patronized in return, crossing his arms to do something with his hands unrelated to making the bard look even more debauched.

Jaskier grinned at him, deliberately unlacing more of his chemise. Whether or not he intended it, the gesture drew all of the witcher’s attention to the hollow of his throat, pale and soft and oh so kissable. He was close enough for Geralt to reach out with the firm intention to close the offending garment himself. He felt Jaskier’s surprised huff on his wrists, and found himself unable to move further, hands fisted in the thin linen. 

The bard stared at his lips, slowly raising his own hands to close around the witcher’s wrists. His pulse was fast, beating almost hard enough to be audible. He walked closer, raising his eyes to meet Geralt’s. His breath ghosted on the witcher’s lips, something like hope glinting in the intensity of his gaze. 

“Breakfast is ready!” yelled a voice down the hall. “Come while it’s hot!”

The moment was broken, Geralt quickly attached his friend’s clothes and left the room without a word, not even bothering to close the door. Jaskier sat heavily on his bed, wondering if he should congratulate himself or mourn the loss of a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. He had envisioned the possibility once or twice, but it had seemed so absurd that he had quickly buried it somewhere discreet. 

Lady Pankratz cleared her throat, making him jump out of his skin. She stood tall and still as stone in the entrance, not daring to cross it yet. Hand on his chest, Jaskier looked at her with a raised eyebrow. He wouldn’t dignify her with words just yet.

“Julian,” she stalled, touching the door then quickly retrieving her hand. 

“Elizabeth,” he replied with all the teenage defiance he could muster at the age of thirty. 

“What, should I call you my lord?” she spat disdainfully. “You demonstrated quite clearly that you had no interest in the title.”

“I’m not in the mood to fight you.” Jaskier tousled his hair, looking through the window where rain kept angrily hitting. “I doubt you’ve come to lecture me on my etiquette. Did you want something in particular?”

Her stark blue eyes, identical to her son’s but in warmth, darted to the corridor before she built up the courage to enter the room and close the door behind her. Jaskier observed her as she all but glid in her heavy robes, infinitely polite and elegant, until she faced him. He gestured at the chair he had put out for Geralt, reluctantly inviting her to say her piece. 

“There is bad blood between us,” Elizabeth Pankratz started, stopping to carefully fold her hands in her lap. “And you are free not to believe me when I say I regret it. Do not interrupt me so soon. It is about your sister.”

“What about her?” He tried to keep his tone neutral, to reign in the agressivity thrashing in his chest.

“On the last full moon, struck by insomnia, I wandered the halls in the hopes of tiring my body enough to find rest-”

Jaskier found himself nodding, remembering being scared shitless the first time he crossed his mother’s ethereal figure on his way to the kitchens.

“That is when I saw a figure leave Marian’s room. A woman, whom I thought at first was one of the maids. But then she moved further in the moonlight, and I saw her skin was the color of night, and glinted as if adorned by diamonds disposed in the shape of galaxies. Her hair was whiter than your…” She hesitated for half a second. “-Bodyguard. I rushed inside to find your sister sleeping as peacefully as ever. I dare even say she looks more. Well, happy is not a word I would use, but more invigorated.”

“So, you saw a beautiful lady leaving Marian’s room in the middle of the night and now she’s happier? Looks like young love to me,” he scoffed. “It’s not like you plan to give her hand to a man, anyway.”

“You do not understand the gravity of the situation!” Lady Pankratz interrupted, clenching her fists in her lap, fury in her eyes. “It wasn’t any woman I saw, it was a fairy. The Fair People have come to take her back from us!”

“Fairies don’t exist.” Even as the words left his mouth, Jaskier felt the tendrils of doubt vy their way in his mind. Until he met Geralt, he also used to believe neither dragons or elves were more than pretty folk tales. Seeing his mother seethe in her seat, he added a placating “But I’ll ask the witcher his opinion.”

“Thank you... Jaskier,” she exhaled. It was like a punch in the gut. He ducked his head, unable to answer her. “I was also hoping you would join me for breakfast. Your friend can come as well, if you wish.”

“Don’t bother. I know you’re just being polite.” He ignored resigned hurt in her eyes. “Maybe when you’ll really mean it.”

Gathering her soft cotton dresses, Lady Pankratz curtsied stiffly on her way out. The beginning of the day had been so good, yet as the sun rose, he had managed to piss off not one but two people. Far from his previous record of more than fifty angry clansmen chasing his pale bottom throughout the countryside, but a witcher must count for at least five ordinary men.

Boredom soon took over. After reviewing most of the house’s nooks and crannies in search for a worthy distraction, Jaskier ended up sulking in front of a glass. The cook had slapped his shoulder blade hard enough to dislodge a lung, and told him there was nothing like winter wine to cure a lonely heart. Had he always been so easy to read? 

Dinner came and went without a white hair in sight but behind the old stable groom’s ears. Ulric excused himself early after nearly an hour of furious blushing and gaze avoidance. No wonder, given the scare the witcher had given him. Too bad, Jaskier could have used the distraction of a warm, willing body next to his before he faced his obligations. 

He sang before the line Marian had etched in the tiles of her room, asking permission to enter. Whether her mood had changed or she guessed something was amiss, she denied it to him. Her crystal clear soprano rose and fell to inform him she wanted him gone. Well. Three people mad at him, it seemed.

He narrowly avoided a face full of witcher pectorals on his way out. As per usual, Geralt's face was near unreadable. 

"Has she talked to you? Oh don't give me that look, my mother. Has she spoken to you?"

"Not in any significant way. Should she?"

Jaskier raised his hands. "It's not about whatever the fuck happened this morning. We've been hired to keep fairies out of my sister's room."

As this was the kind of conversation better held around a tankard of ale, Jaskier asked one to be brought to his room. It sickened him how easily ordering servants around came to him, for he had enjoyed these kinds of privileges most of his childhood. Having been ordered around himself more than he had ever intended to ever since, the bard knew that servants did not enjoy their own servitude, that it was merely a tale crafted by the few remains of morals nobles possessed. If Geralt judged him for it -and no doubt he did- the witcher made no show of it.

"The Fair Folk is rumored to exist, or at least to have existed in times older than this house," Geralt admitted, taking a swig cold elderflower ale. "I knew someone who pretended he had seen one, but he was a drunk and a cretin."

"So it's possible my mother simply imagined preternatural assets on this intruder?"

The witcher nodded. Within the walls of Pankratz estate, he wore no armor nor gambison, and his rolled sleeves made up entire fairy tales on their own. For such a brutal man, he had remarkably well-balanced hands.

"So we're in agreement that the weirdest thing is for someone to take interest in Marian at all. By which I mean, we share the same face, alas for her I stole all the reserves of charm. Don't you roll your eyes you absolute boar."

"Would anyone outside the castle be able to fluently communicate with her? You mentioned she's intelligent, and she does share your face. This is more than many can hope for."

"No, unless they're smart enough to decipher a made-up language based on elvish music theory. Marian came up with it though, so it's possible she taught that girl. Also did you just compliment me or was I dreaming?"

"You were. Did she teach you?" 

It was Jaskier's turn to roll his eyes in his skull. "No, I had to learn based on her notes. But anyone with musical training can do that. Based on this we're looking at a lady with sparkling sleeves, bardic aptitudes and a weird taste in women. Can't be that hard, can it?"

The witcher remained thoughtfully silent. Having followed him for so long, Jaskier had come to the conclusion that his friend preferred the investigation part to the fighting, resolution part of a mystery. Why otherwise would he find himself in such intricately complicated situations, dragging Jaskier by the neck of his doublet like an oversized kitten?

"What if it is a fairy, though?"

"They cannot lie and can only be harmed by iron."

"Do they have anything to do with moonlight?"

Geralt shrugged, an orange plume lazily dragging over his incredibly flat stomach. It was only then that Jaskier realized the house's mouser was happily purring on the stoic witcher's lap. As his friend hadn't used his left hand for a few minutes, it was most likely being employed as a cat pillow. The thought momentarily overtook all logic and reason, making Jaskier bring his chair closer to run his hand through the cat’s soft fur. Occupied as he was, he did not notice Geralt standing straighter, eyes resolutely fixed on his flagon. Their arms touched where the bard rested his elbow, fingers petting the purring animal.

“Even if the whole affair turns out to be as mundane as I expect it to be, it has the making of a great song. Imagine, a cursed princess and her fae lover meeting at the light of the moon…  
_And she sang for she had no words down her throat,  
And She blessed their union with her light,  
And with a kiss they tied a knot,  
Bound their fates in delight. Oooh, Lady of the night-_ Wait no ladies of the night are usually whores. I’ll find something. What do you say, Geralt?” Jaskier raised his eyes to meet the sharp line of the witcher’s tightly shut jaw. Something like anger painted his profile, making the bard recoil his hand to himself. 

“Will you tell me what is wrong?” Jaskier asked quietly, watching the cat stretch and hop down unhurriedly.

“No.” The simple syllable had had to fight its way through the witcher’s teeth.

Feeling annoyance flair within the depths of his throat, Jaskier got up. With tense paces, he reached the thick curtains behind which the night had already taken over the world. No doubt Geralt’s peculiar eyes would be able to see the downpour still raging outside. 

“Tonight the moon is full, but her light will not reach us,” he said instead of the words burning his tongue. “If you care at all, I will stand guard in Marian’s room. Goodnight, Geralt.”

The witcher did not call after him.


End file.
